


Black Squadron: Loyalties

by Azalea_Scroggs



Series: Black Squadron [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: A little, Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Manipulation, Father-Son Relationship, Gaslighting, Gen, Luke has a lot to deal with, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, TIE pilot Luke, because Palps is still a bastard, darker and edgier, the long-distance version
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-01-05 18:57:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18372104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azalea_Scroggs/pseuds/Azalea_Scroggs
Summary: Luke Skywalker is on the run. Hunted by the Empire, not a single credit on him, he has to rely on old friends and new acquaintances alike to elude its powerful grasp. Every step he makes, however, is shadowed by the mystery of Darth Vader. The question pursues him more relentlessly than a thousand starships could: why did Vader save his life?





	1. Summary of the previous part

Young Luke Lars arrives on _Devastator,_ just graduated from the Imperial Academy and excited about his posting: at only eighteen, he was assigned to the elite Black Squadron, Darth Vader's personal fighter squadron. He meets his wingmate Chaser, who is dismayed by finding out Luke is only a kid. However, Luke's personality and flying skills quickly endear him to Chaser, who warms up to him and introduces him to the rest of the squad. They are only few pilots, for the squadron was decimated in a surprise Rebel attack a few weeks earlier.

Soon enough, Luke gets acquainted with the reality of a pilot's life: the paperwork, the training, the perpetual lack of time. An incident with a faulty uniform tunic attracts the attention of Darth Vader on him. The dark lord is intrigued by his familiarity, his flying skills and presence in the Force.

Meanwhile the squadron's first battle is soon approaching, and Luke is nervous. He knows Biggs, his best friend on Tatooine and at the Academy, has defected to the Rebels, and he is haunted by the idea of facing him in battle.

The fight itself is tense and difficult. Held back by a powerful instinct, Luke hesitates before obeying an order Darth Vader gave him. Vader is furious, but also curious about the Force-sensitive young man that used to live near Obi-Wan's hiding place before he found and killed his old Jedi master. He decides to ground Luke and to watch him closely.

In his new functions, Luke is bored out of his mind and unnerved by Vader's surveillance. He is further disheartened to see new pilots arrive on the squadron and disquieted by the mention of “enhanced interrogation” on prisoners' files Vader gave him to sort, which calls back to forbidden Rebel meetings Biggs dragged him to despite Luke's allegiance to the Empire.

Frustrated and exhausted, Luke talks back to Vader one too many times and Vader strangles him, attempting to kill him. Luke instinctively defends himself through the Force and manages to free himself, to Vader's astonishment.

Vader talks about Luke's potential to the Emperor, who gives him permission to train him. But after Vader's abuse, Luke is reluctant to spend more time with him and turns down his offer.

Meanwhile Luke was reinstated on the squadron and progresses in his flying. After a successful battle, the squadron unites to give Luke a call sign: Shooting Star. Luke is delighted despite the call sign reminding him of Biggs, but the celebrations are cut short when _Devastator_ is attacked.

They manage to repel the enemy, but Chaser falls under the Rebels' fire, and Luke is devastated. He asks Vader to help him improve his flying with the Force in order to better protect his squad mates. The lessons are a success: Luke progresses quickly, and Vader is happy and proud to see his talent develop. But Luke's squadmates find the way he is growing closer to Vader suspicious. A rift grows between them, for Luke cannot possibly tell them about the Force.

The gap between them only grows when Mauler, Darth Vader's wingman and their instructor, dies in battle, and Vader names Luke to take his place. Furthermore, Vader is troubled by his growing affection towards Luke and cuts his lessons short, leaving Luke alone.

However, after a meeting with the Emperor, Vader offers him lessons again; but Luke, fed up with his commanding officer's mood swings, refuses. Vader's temper flares and he orders him back into training, which Luke drags his feet to. It takes Vader much effort to finally understand his behaviour is affecting Luke negatively and to accept that he cares about him. He promises Luke he will no longer hurt him.

Meanwhile Luke is still dismayed by the lengths the Empire goes to in order to win the war: reprisals on civilians, killing of refugees. After a bloody battle, he opens his heart to Vader about it. Vader offers him apprenticeship in the ways of the Sith, and opens the possibility of a coup against the Emperor. Luke accepts.

However, the Emperor's spies have uncovered Luke's true identity and his ties with Biggs. During his visit on _Devastator_ for Empire's Day, Palpatine accuses Luke of treason, reveals his name as being Skywalker rather than Lars and arrests him.

Luke is interrogated and put on trial. Pushed by the Emperor, a reluctant Vader tortures him to tear a confession from him, but Luke never departs from his claims of innocence. During his audience, he denounces his inhumane treatment and proclaims his loyalty to both the Empire and his father Anakin Skywalker before being sentenced to death.

Vader is reeling from the revelation and feeling betrayed by Luke's actions, especially his hiding his identity. Everything comes back to him the night before Luke's execution. Faced with the truth of his love for his son and his grief at the fate reserved to him, he understands he cannot let Luke die.

Vader frees a badly injured Luke from his cell and leads him to a ship, staring into the rising sun as Luke flies away...


	2. Escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Here is the (very) long awaited sequel. Hope it was worth the wait!
> 
> I forgot to say this before, but as you probably know if you read the tags, this is going to deal with pretty heavy themes: torture, trauma and the consequences of it. I have done research on these topics but I am by no means an expert. That is why I would like to request honest feedback to you, and that for the whole fic, especially if you are or know trauma survivors or work in a field related to these issues. I really wish for this to ring as true as I can make it, and I thank you beforehand for your help.

The silence was deafening once blaster fire finally died out in the hangar, the engines of the ship long gone. In their haste to prevent the prisoner's flight, three squadrons of stormtroopers had assembled and now stood straight, facing their failure. Weapons were put back into holsters, eyes trained on Vader with fright.

Vader slowly turned around. The euphoria of Luke's escape was receding, and he knew he had to explain this.

He thought for a minute, his heart still light but his situation starting to sink in. It was obvious for anyone with eyes that he had broken the boy out. It was the only explanation for how he could get out so soon before his execution and why Vader now stood there, empty-handed.

He crossed the stormtrooper officer's gaze and felt the man's fear increase. Vader looked him in the eye, brushing the idea of blaming it on him. What was a mere trooper to him? The man was visibly expecting it... He lifted his hand, feigning anger at the man's failure, ready to take his life.

But the thought died as soon as it was born. The atmosphere shifted, the troopers straightened, the focus of the attention moved away from Vader, and he knew lies and justifications would be useless.

The hooded figure of the Emperor entered the hangar, hunched over his cane, deceptively small and frail. His presence brushed against Vader's, who immediately understood. Disquiet awakened in the pit of his guts, but he didn't move. He stood in place, tall and stoic.

Little by little, in what seemed a very long time, the Emperor shuffled towards Vader. With a gesture, he discarded the troopers and they left, all too happy to be spared. The two Sith Lords remained the only ones in the hangar.

Vader couldn't see his master's face under his hood, couldn't read his mood in the Force. His heart beat faster, the remnants of old fear grasped at his soul, but he didn't give them purchase.

The gravity of his actions dropped on him like a bucket of cold water on his head. Never before had he so deliberately, so completely disobeyed his master. He had defied him; heard his orders, and gone against them.

There was no going back now. His mind wondered, for a moment, whether Sidious would merely renounce him and take the title of Sith apprentice away from him, or if he would kill him, slowly and painfully. He knew the latter was most likely: by disobeying him, Vader had humiliated him, discarded his authority.

But he couldn't find it in himself to regret any of it. Had he been faced with this choice again, he knew he would have done the same thing all over again in a heartbeat.

Luke lived. He let the fact run through him, warm him inside, beat inside his veins with his blood as he stood straight and awaited his master's judgement.

The Emperor arrived at Vader's level and stopped. He didn't say anything at first, and the silence seemed to stretch, unbearable, eternal.

Then he sighed.

“I am sorry, my friend,” he said, and Vader was stunned. His master looked so fragile in this moment, so defeated, that he nearly had pity for him. “I am an old fool, and my foresight is no longer what it used to be.”

Vader bowed his head, not sure how to answer. Of all the things he had imagined his master to do or say, he had never expected an apology. And for what, anyway? He was the one who had let the boy go. If anybody was guilty, _he_ was...

“I should have expected it,” the Emperor said, his voice sad, regretful. Vader felt punched in the gut. “I knew you cared for the boy. Family, _love_ has always been your weakness. I should have known better than to make you stand by while he was executed.”

“ _I_ was the one who freed him,” Vader cut his master off, unable to bear his self-flagellating. It was entirely his own fault.

Only afterwards did he realise he had confessed to it aloud. He looked away, unable to bear his master's gaze.

But Palpatine waved his concerns away by a careless gesture of his hand.

“It no longer matters. He is gone, away from here. That cannot be changed.”

Vader swallowed. He wished he was anywhere but here; and yet he couldn't help relief from flooding over him at the realisation the Emperor didn't intend to punish him from him. Vader knew he had hurt him; he could see it in his gaze, hear it in the tone of his voice.

“Master...”

“Let us no longer talk about it,” the Emperor said, and his tone was so brisk Vader didn't insist. ”Other matters must now hold our attention.”

“I am listening, my master,” Vader said in haste, careful to conceal his emotions. He was walking a fine line, and wanted nothing less than to upset the Emperor again.

“I must congratulate you on the way you handled the presumed leak of our project.” Vader scoffed at that. The operation in the Nembus sector had been a disaster. “However, it is unfortunate the Rebels left no trace of what they knew. I fear what might happen, were they to learn of the project's location before it is ready... I need you to go there and oversee the last stages of construction. There you will collaborate with Grand Moff Tarkin, who is coordinating it. You will protect the station with your life.”

Vader gave him a curt nod. He despised Tarkin's Core-world arrogance, but he had to admit to the man's cleverness and vision. The perspective of working with him was irritating but by no means unbearable; besides, he really couldn't complain.

“I want it operational as soon as possible,” the Emperor said. “It will be an invaluable tool to defeat the Rebellion. Only then will be able to finally bring back the peace to the galaxy.”

A pang of regret awakened in Vader's heart at these words. Had he stayed at his side, Luke would have been an even greater help... Nothing would have been impossible with their combined strength.

But it was not to be. The boy lived, and that needed to be enough.

“Yes, my master,” he said.

He was still reeling from his master's lack of reaction at his betrayal. He had let a dangerous prisoner go. Were he anyone else, he would have died for that crime... yet Sidious had let it slide with barely a word. Did the boy matter so little to him? After all this show, all this insistence that he be interrogated and tried in accordance with the law, he brushed off his escape like a mere nuisance? Why go through this farce to make an example out of him, instead of shooting him in the neck like any other Rebel, if he held so little importance?

Vader didn't understand. But it was just as well, and he couldn't believe his luck. The less risk for Luke to be captured by the Empire again, the better. Perhaps he could find a way to make sure he was safe... even contact him, maybe.

His son lived. Joy awakened in him again at the thought. It was all that really mattered.

The Emperor was heading back towards the hangar's exit when he stopped and turned towards him again.

“Oh, and Lord Vader,” he said, as if on an afterthought. “I expect you shall have more than enough work with your posting. Do not bother yourself with the boy; I will search for him myself.”

Vader's insides turned into ice. If the Emperor intended to go after him, Luke was lost. And he could say nothing, could do nothing to prevent it...

No. That couldn't happen. He refused to lose him.

Tightly clamping down on the panic rising in his chest, Vader deeply bowed down.  
  

 

Luke woke up disoriented and thirsty, a thousand pounding aches drumming in his body. He groaned, lifted a hand to his forehead. Where was he? What had happened? Wasn't he supposed to die?

Oh. True. The hangar, the ship, the escape from Imperial Centre. Vader breaking him out...

He repressed a shiver and pushed himself up sitting, grimacing from the pain. His whole body felt numb, but especially his right arm, on which he seemed to have slept. Prickles were going up and down his forearm; he rubbed it absent-mindedly.

He was free. He was alive. He repeated the words a few times, barely daring believe them, impossible as they sounded. He had been so certain he was going to die... Even now, he nearly expected stormtroopers to burst through the door at any moment and manhandle him back to his little cell, ready to start another round of torture. The bulkheads of the ship didn't seem real, as if he was dreaming them.

But no. This was real. He could hear it in the subtle thrum of the hyperdrive. Luke latched onto it as he forced himself to watch his surroundings.

Around him, the cabin was Imperial grey. Luke wondered why the Empire seemed to hate colour so much. For a moment, he was seized with an irresistible urge to paint these walls bright red, or with the same off-white as the interior of his homestead.

His homestead. For the first time in months, a powerful wave of homesickness ran over him. He missed Tatooine so much: the endless sand plains stretching out to the horizon, the warm wind in his face, the twin sunset; his kind and wise aunt, his gruff but loving uncle, the both of whom he had often thought of during his captivity. He had never thought it possible before, but even the thought of the vaporators evoked a terrible wistfulness in him. He wanted to go home.

How much time had passed since his arrest? It felt as if he had spent a lifetime there, cut off from the world. He had no idea if it had been weeks or months. They hadn't let him see the sun or any other mean to count the time.

He took a deep breath, desperately needing oxygen in his lungs yet not daring expand them too much. If felt as if a knife was stabbing him in the chest every time he breathed in, and he wondered if he didn't have a rib or two broken.

_Cold against his cheek. His arms pulled up over his head in protection. Pain exploding in his chest._

Luke ran a hand on his face with a sigh. He should try and find a refresher. He was so thirsty it was as if his mouth was full of flimsi, and he felt terribly dirty. He longed for a good, hot shower, for the sonic waves to vibrate through him, soothing and cleansing.

Carefully, he set his feet on the ground and stood up. It was still difficult to do so, but already less harrowing than it had in the past few days. He didn't know if it was that he had slept or if freedom made his shoulders lighter.

He was free. He was alive. It was still hard to wrap his head around it.

Luke wandered around the passenger hold, feeling like a ghost haunting this desert place without a purpose. He opened a few empty cupboards before finally finding some supplies.

The first thing he did was to seize a water ration and to rip it open. His throat and mouth were so dry he was burning with the desire to gulp the whole thing down, but he knew better. Fighting against himself, he forced himself to sip it slowly, letting it linger on his tongue before swallowing it, and stopped when he had drunk half of it. It was hard to resist the incredible relief the water brought him, but too much would only unsettle his stomach.

He put the container down and turned towards a ration bar. Vague nausea made the idea of food unappealing, but he needed it to regain his strength. He opened the packing and took a tiny bite, then another, and managed to get through two thirds of the bar before giving up. He would have to try it again later.

Already feeling a little stronger, Luke seized the first aid pack and left the passenger hold in search of a fresher. He could just have undressed then and there, he supposed: there was room, there was light, and he was alone. But the idea made him uncomfortable. It would be all too easy for someone to find him and use that moment of vulnerability against him.

He turned the lock of the refresher room twice, just to make sure. His fingers went to the fasteners of his tunic and hovered there, hesitating. Part of him dreaded to discover what they had done to his body, what marks of their abuse would be imprinted in his skin.

But he knew he had to make sure none of the wounds were infected, at least, and check there wasn't anything too serious at work. Feeling strangely exposed, he closed his eyes and opened his shirt. Then he let it slide down his arms and fall on the floor.

He stood like this for a couple of breaths, eyes tightly closed, before looking down at last. He lightly ran his fingers over the bruises on his left arm, then the right. His hand lingered on the needle marks on his neck, then went down to his clavicle, his chest. His whole skin was marbled with blue and purple; on the right side of his ribcage, a dark stain the size of his hand was spreading, and he winced touching it. Small, round red burns were etched into his sides, continuing down to the lower part of his abdomen, where his skin was most sensitive, and he took off his trousers to continue his inspection. Two wounds only were open and already scabbing over, remnants of a particularly vicious beating: one on his left thigh, the other on his upper right arm.

Nothing that wouldn't heal in time.

His hands trembling, Luke took the first aid kit he had put in the sink and fumbled with it to find the bacta patches, carefully avoiding looking in the mirror. Two for his wounds and cream for the largest bruise on his chest should be enough. He was just about to apply them when it occurred to him showering first would be wiser.

He removed the last of his clothing and stepped into the shower before turning it on. Despite the aches in his body when the sonic waves reached his bruises, it felt as good as he had pictured it, removing layer after layer of sweat and dirt. It had been so long since he had last been able to have this... Luke washed himself as well as he could, wincing when a sharp and blinding pain went through his chest as he tried to raise his right arm, or when his hands brushed a sensitive bruise.

_Shouts. Shocks in his lower belly, shaking him whole. Ragged breathing, helpless rage, weakness, muscles trembling when he tried to move._

In the small space, his thoughts and memories seemed to echo as much as the sound of the shower. His stomach was tight with anxiety, a nagging worry at the back of his mind. Images and feelings flashed before his eyes, so swift he couldn't grasp them before they were gone.

_Laying on the slab, a needle in his neck, his eyes firmly closed. Taunts._

_Kneeling, hands tied behind his back. A breath too loud in his ears. Pressure on all his limbs, his blood boiling, his head about to explode... a deep and raging voice demanding answers he didn't have... tears, screams, hatred..._

Luke came out of the shower much sooner than he had planned to. Medical supplies forgotten, he hurried to dress then went back to the passenger hold, drank and ate some more. He felt safer and calmer here, in the somewhat larger space, where the soothing sound of the ship's engines buzzed regularly, just soft enough not to disturb the silence. The light too was warmer and more natural.

He was free. He was alive.

Before he knew it, his eyelids dropped and he passed out again on the passenger seat, overwhelmed by exhaustion.  
 

 

The second time Luke awakened, there was an insistent beeping in his ears. He sat up, tried to determine the origin of the sound. The cockpit...

He rose from the seat and headed to the room. Indeed, the annoying noise was stronger here, coming from the hyperspace console. He approached it and looked at the readings.

_Reversion to real space in less than five standard minutes._

Luke frowned. He didn't remember setting an hyperspace course. Come to think of it, he didn't remember anything past that first run out of Imperial Centre's orbit. No matter how long he racked his brain for it, there was nothing but a big hole in his memory, as if he'd blacked out as soon as he'd left.

He would have believed that was what happened if evidence to the contrary was not just right there, before his eyes.

At least he hoped he had planned enough jump points. A cold chill ran through him. It would be all too easy to trace him if he hadn't... and pluck him like a flower at his arrival.

No. That wasn't going to happen. Luke shivered and opened the travel journal, soon reassured to see the five stages he had programmed into his journey. It wasn't much, but it should be enough to prevent pursuers from calculating his course. From what he could see, he had taken care not to use the lanes with the most traffic.

Which left the question of his destination, of course. He thought he recognised the numbers; there were maps and indexes for planetary coordinates, but some of them he had actually memorised. He ran his fingers over the display.

Conquering his uncertainty, he engaged the reversion procedure and dropped in the pilot seat, hissing at the pain in his ribs the brusque movement had caused. He took the controls, checked the warning lights and the readouts.

The threads of light typical to hyperspace diminished into stars again. Deceleration pushed Luke forward on the controls, but he held on to them until the ship had stabilised.

Outside the viewport stood a familiar ochre planet, striped with brown and orange.

Luke kept his eyes trained on it for a moment, his throat tightening. Why was he being so emotional about this old rock? A few years ago he wanted nothing more than to get away from it...

But so much had changed since then. Luke hadn't seen Tatooine since leaving for the Academy. It seemed like he had been a different man then, a boy with starlight in his eyes, his head full of dreams of adventures and no idea what life really was like. In these years he had learnt so much, been through so much. Coming back here, where everything had begun, was impossible to describe.

Despite everything he said about it, despite his complaints and his griefs, it was _home_.

He swallowed the knot in his throat and began his descent.

The planet was very different seen from above. Luke hesitated for a while about the direction in which he should take his ship; the settlements looked similar, and he would be hard-pressed to recognise Mos Eisley from Mos Espa.

He knew the Dune Sea, though, Beggar's Canyon and Anchorhead. He flew a little bit faster.

Luke's heart accelerated. He was so close to home now... He missed it so much it was like an ache in his chest. He couldn't wait to see his aunt and uncle again...

He frowned when he saw the homestead down below. It seemed to have changed... Perhaps it was only the altitude, though. Luke checked the coordinates to make sure he was at the right place, but there was no mistake.

A heavy feeling had settled in his chest, a sense of wrongness. He tried diving deeper in the Force to understand what it was telling him, but it felt murky and clouded, uninviting.

Luke landed as quickly as he could, feeling like a stone had fallen in his guts. He barely took the time to turn off the engines and ran out of the ship.

He barely recognised the homestead. It had to be another farm, it couldn't be his home...

But no. He recognised the shape of the buildings, the way it was facing the suns, the way it was built – even though there wasn't much left of it.

It had all burnt. The dome that stood at the entrance was no longer white but black, soot soiling the whitewash walls. A part of the structure had collapsed, leaving a hole in the roof.

Luke's breath caught. It was a nightmare. That couldn't be possible. How had it happened? Was it an accident, or had someone done it on purpose? He couldn't imagine his guardians to be so careless as to let their house burn so badly... He hoped they had escaped, that they had left early enough and hadn't been taken in the fire...

Another detail, even more horrible, attracted his attention and shattered all his hopes. On the doorstep, just in front of the entrance of the home, laid two skeletons, so burnt they were unrecognisable; but Luke knew who they were.

A wail of distress escaped him and he fell on his knees, feeling like his heart had been ripped from his chest. No... Aunt Beru... Uncle Owen... He stared at them, numbed and dazed, praying it was only a nightmare and he would wake soon... it couldn't be true...

He remained kneeling for a long time, rigid and unmoving, his gaze set on them without seeing.


	3. Meetings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not updating in more than a month again. Have an extra long chapter though!

The first sun had set when Luke finally put the shovel down. Wind was picking up, mixing sand in his hair, the familiar smell of dusk and cooling heat reaching his nostrils. He shivered from the chill. In front of him stood two gravestones taken from the ruin of the homestead, the names of his aunt and uncle carved on them in uneven letters, the best he could achieve.

Luke straightened, wiped the sweat from his brow. His muscles were burning, each breath he took was a stab through his lungs, and he wanted nothing more than to collapse onto the sand and lie there for an eternity. But the physical discomfort didn't bother him. It felt good to _feel_ this way, the pain in his body real and deserved, grounding him, absolving him.

He stood in front of them, awkward and rooted in place, like when he had first found them. So often had he wanted to leave this place, it was now as if he no longer belonged, an outsider in his own home.

Luke closed his eyes and hung his head, clasping his hands behind him, silent. What words could express the extent of his remorse? He had left them, abandoned them even though they needed him; and now they were dead because of him.

Luke had no doubt what had caused the fire. His aunt and uncle weren't careless enough for a fire to grow that strong without their extinguishing it, unless they had been away. And they had been lying outside the house, which meant they couldn't have been trapped inside the burning building, either. No, they must have been killed before it started; most likely shot by Imperial blasters, as punishment for their connection to him.

It was his fault. His aunt and uncle had taken him in, fed him, loved him, and all he had brought them in return was death. All of that just so he could leave them, leave his home behind on a capricious teenager's whim.

And he was alone. Alone, with nowhere to go.

He squeezed his eyes shut and hung his head. He should have stayed in his cell and waited for his execution. He should have stayed away from the Navy – stayed away from Biggs – stayed here, in his home, without causing any problems.

His torturers' shouts resounded in his ears, his heart raced helplessly, and he wondered if maybe they were right after all, if perhaps he should have confessed and avoided this. Pain was running in his limbs, inescapable.

How could he even stand on their graves and mourn? He couldn't bear this indecency, for him to stay here and look at them any longer. But he also couldn't leave, couldn't tear himself away from the only family he had ever known... He was trapped, unable to think, unable to move, his mind stuck in a pain-stricken place in which all decision seemed impossible.

His hands trembled, his breath hitched, hollow.

_Luke..._

The wind was becoming even stronger. He could feel it, hear it whistling in his ear, still unmoving.

_Luke..._

He looked up and around, trying to find the origin of the call. There was nobody around him, just sand as far as the eye could see. And that distance was diminishing as the storm was rising, clouds of grains swirling in the air in spiralling motives.

He should find shelter. He should go back to his ship and wait it out in the safety of the cabin. But the voice was still calling, and these sensible thoughts were but a whisper in his mind, overwhelmed by curiosity and the reckless urge to follow it into the desert.

_Luke..._

He turned from the homestead and walked away.

Luke didn't know how long he wandered, absently, without knowing where he was going, an arm up to protect his face from the sand whipping his face. His lungs were burning, his chest was aching, his muscles were screaming when he finally arrived at a small dwelling carved in rock, a square building with a dome on top of it. He hurried to the door and all but leant against it as he knocked, his knees trembling. There was no answer.

"Hello? Anyone in there?"

He knocked again, desperate. He didn't have a cloak, and his face hurt from the storm. He could barely keep his eyes open, squinting and blinking, tears in them to chase the sand. Even if he had been able to look around, there was too little light to see much, for the night must have fallen.

"Please..."

Luke was starting to panic. What had possessed him, to go walking in the middle of the desert, in the middle of a _storm?_ He needed to get in. He wouldn't make it through the night otherwise.

_Open the door._

Luke started, frowned. He didn't hesitate for long, though; as strange as the voice's advice was, he needed shelter too much.

Stranger still, the door was indeed unlocked. Luke stepped foot in the entrance, shook some sand from him with great relief, then took another hesitant step.

"Hello?"

No answer. Luke didn't like this one bit. He fumbled with a hand on the wall for a short time and finally found a light switch. The room buzzed with electricity before lighting up.

He looked around, trying to see if he was intruding in anyone's home. Who could be careless enough to leave their door open in the desert, at the mercy of pillagers and Sand People? He seemed to be alone. When he looked closer, there was a good layer of dust on every surface, which made him wonder how long ago there had been someone here for the last time.

Luke heard heavy ringing in his ears. His heart started to race, black dots appeared at the edge of his vision, and he fell down on the closest thing he could find, winded and dizzy. He put his feet up too, waiting for it to pass as he struggled not to faint.

How long had he walked in the sand? He didn't know, but certainly far too long, especially in his already weakened and exhausted state. He should never have undertaken such a long journey, without even knowing where he was going. What had he been thinking? Now he was trapped here, unable to leave as long as the storm was raging...

The painful thumping in his ears was slowly receding, but he still felt too weak to move. He looked around, trying to map his surroundings. The walls were made of white stone that made his heart ache with familiarity. Furniture was sparse but seemed comfortable: a small stove, a table, a chair, and a bed in an alcove with furs on it. Through the windows, the wind was still howling, night well underway. In the centre of the room lay a brown cloak, as if someone had just taken it off then left it there; it was eerily stretched out on the floor in a puddle of cloth, foreboding.

The vision was uncomfortable, and Luke looked away, taking in the rest of the room. He still felt like an intruder; except for the dust, it looked as though someone had just left for groceries and would return soon. Luke expected someone to come from the front door, the back door or the 'fresher at any moment, to demand to know what he was doing here, to chase him away. He was in no condition to walk, never mind fight.

He should have been spending the night home. The thought hurt, and he had to close his eyes to struggle against the lump in his throat. Everything was familiar here, in all the wrong ways: it reminded him of the homestead without giving him the illusion of belonging. He should have embraced his family, held them tight against him and apologised for leaving; Uncle Owen should have told him that he was glad he was back and that he could do real work now, brought him back to normality; Aunt Beru should have seen through his tough facade, let him break down in the safety of her arms and murmured nothing would happen to him any more...

His chest tight, Luke stood up and made his way to the other end of the hut as carefully as he could, hoping he wouldn't succumb to another bout of dizziness, taking care to lean on the furniture in his reach to get to the kitchen area. He knew the water was probably stale, but he opened the tap and drank anyway, needing it too much to worry about bacteria like he would usually have done. He straightened and wiped his mouth with his sleeve, looking around for food without much hope. Around him, they seemed to be none; he spotted a trapdoor he supposed led to a cellar, but he wasn't risking stairs in the state he was in.

Instead he made his way to the bed and all but fell down in it. He hoped the absent owner of the house wouldn't hold it against him... The furs were more comfortable than he had expected; they smelled of dust, sand and bantha. He closed his eyes and took a shallow, open-mouthed breath, his head swimming, pressure against his ears.

Exhausted as he was, he had been certain he would fall asleep easily, but that wasn't what happened. His body was wired, so tense he could practically feel static electricity around him, and each noise made him jump. He tossed and turned, unable to find a comfortable position, pins and needles in his limbs each time he forced himself to stop moving. He drifted in and out of consciousness, his aunt's and uncle's faces looking at him no more in love but in condemnation, twisting and twirling as they mocked him cruelly. Luke begged, trapped, helpless, ashamed. Cold grey walls were closing in everywhere around him, and he couldn't escape. In the background, constant and threatening, howled the desert wind.

He woke up from his half-slumber in a sweat, the mysterious whisper in his ear.

_Luke..._

He sat up, suddenly very awake and alert, looking around frantically. There was nothing.

"Who is there?"

It was still the middle of the night, and the room was pitch black. Luke frowned; he didn't remember turning off the lights...

What was happening? Who was there with him? What was going on?

_You don't know me, but I know you, Luke._

Luke started. The voice was nothing but a caress against his ear, barely distinguishable from the wheezing of the storm. It might as well have slapped him in the face.

"Who are you?" he repeated, his hands clammy, his heart hammering. "What do you want with me?"

_For a long time I have watched you, protected you. I have seen you as a child, playing in the dunes, flying in the canyons, reckless and free. But I have failed you._

"What do you mean?" spat Luke. He shivered from the cold of the night, brought his knees up against his chest, wrapping himself in the furs and making himself as small as he could. Although he was still entirely dressed, boots included, he couldn't help feeling naked. He didn't have a weapon, not even a blaster to defend himself against the mysterious and creepy stranger; should he choose to attack him, Luke would have no defence. He looked around in the darkness, again and again, but still there was no one.

_Luke. Go to the chest, open it._

Luke's heart was still thudding against his ribs, his guts knotted so tight it hurt, his breath short and useless. The thing he had first sat on did indeed look a little like a chest, even in the darkness. What could then be hidden there? Was it a trap? But how would a mere chest hold a trap? It didn't make sense. Nothing about this made sense.

He just wanted for the voice to leave. This was not normal. Had he grown mad? Was this place haunted? It certainly seemed so; the shadows looked as if they were going to jump on him and swallow him whole any moment.

_In that chest is your father's lightsabre._

Luke's eyes widened. "What?" he exclaimed. "How do you have that? Who _are_ you?"

This time the voice didn't answer, but Luke thought he could still feel its presence, despite not hearing it. What was going on?

Everything in him was screaming at him to run away and leave this place behind. But until a bright morning rose, Luke couldn't do that. Besides... he had to admit he was tempted. His father's lightsabre... It was a weapon, after all. That was always a good thing to have.

And it had belonged to his father. How could he resist the possibility of finally possessing something of his family? Luke was alone. He had lost everyone he cared about: his father, his aunt, his uncle... even his teacher had –

Luke squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. He wouldn't go there. He slowly stood up and walked towards the chest, waiting for something to fall on his head every step he took. He tripped in the cloth of the brown cloak and moved away from it as soon as he could, as if he was afraid it would come alive.

His breath short, he knelt in front of the chest and opened it. He blindly let his hand fumble in the things stored, the darkness making it impossible to see what was inside, until he stumbled on something metallic and cylindrical.

Gaping, he slowly took it out and rose. It felt good an natural in his hand, the weight of it just right. His thumb settled on something that felt like an activation plate; he pointed the weapon away from him and pressed it.

He jumped as a bright blue light sprang from the hilt, nearly one metre long, faintly illuminating the darkness of the room. After his heart had calmed down a little, he waved it right and left, transfixed.

An idea struck him. He squatted again and lifted the lightsabre above the chest to see what was inside. There were mostly what seemed to be clothes and trinkets, but a book with a leather cover drew his attention. He took it out as well, brought his makeshift torch closer to make out what was written on the cover.

"Ben Kenobi..." he read, his fingers brushing the journal as an epiphany struck him. "Is that who you are? Old Ben, Obi-Wan Kenobi?"

_Yes. Luke, the Force is muddled and agitated. Great change is about to happen. You must go to Dagobah; there, you will find a Jedi Master called Yoda. He can help you, teach you._

Luke's breath caught in his throat, and he turned off the lightsabre, a bad taste in his mouth. Being a Jedi was illegal. He had thought they had all disappeared, killed by Vader...

No. He wouldn't think about Vader.

"I don't need help," he said, a bit too loud perhaps. The sound was real, so was the hut and the storm outside it. He was _safe_. "I don't want anything to do with the Jedi."

A pang went through his heart at the thought, the knot in his guts a bit tighter. It felt a little like a renunciation. His father had been a Jedi, he knew; fallen during the Clone Wars, loyal to the Republic. But Luke wasn't one, he never would be. It was forbidden, and he wasn't a traitor. He didn't want to give the Empire even more reason to go after him, all of that on the advice of a disembodied voice.

They probably didn't even need that, though. He'd already been sentenced to death. For all he knew, they were looking for him in this very moment... tracking his ship, hunting him down, their speeders surrounding him, cold metal binders on his wrists...

He closed his eyes in anguish, a tingling in his fingers, bile rising in his throat. His family was dead because of him. He was a _fugitive_. He had nowhere to go, he would never be safe, the Empire would catch him, they were going to kill him, they were going to – going to –

_Luke. Luke, answer me._

Luke forced himself to take deep breaths, focusing on Ben Kenobi's voice. It was all right. He was safe, at least until the storm abated. Nobody would come looking for him here. He was safe.

"It's okay. I'm good," he said through gritted teeth.

_You need training. The Force is strong with you, and the dark side is lurking. Yoda is safely hidden, you won't be discovered..._

"I said _no_ ," Luke interrupted him. "Go away."

_Luke..._

"Go _away_ ," Luke growled. This time, Ben didn't respond.

Luke focused on the pounding of his heart, on the sound of the wind outside the window, on the feeling of the lightsabre hilt, clutched tightly in his hands. It was a weapon. It was good, it would help if he was attacked. Make him safe.

Finally the sound of the wind receded, and so did his fears. He sat down on the chest again, exhausted. The room seemed less dark, too. Morning was rising, reassuring and bright.

Luke clipped the lightsabre on his belt and opened the journal, but he was too tired to read. His stomach, however, was painful and growling with the intensity of a Krayt dragon. He was going to see if there was food – and he hoped there was, for he would be in a predicament otherwise, but people on this planet usually kept dried meats and nuts in their cellars in case of a bad sandstorm. Then he would sleep some more, maybe stay a few days, until he felt good enough to make a long journey. He would see if the house's owner had possessed a speeder and look for transport off-planet in Mos Eisley. Maybe he would look for his ship in order to sell it... he couldn't fly from Tatooine with it, the Empire would be on his tail.

He was going to survive, one way or another.

Outside, the storm had entirely calmed down.  
 

 

The DS-1 Orbital Station was as huge as it looked monstrous. Spherical, the size of a small moon, it reflected light in an eerie manner, an oddity among all space objects. Even the Force reeked with danger, imprinted with its capacity for destruction.

Death Star certainly was a fitting name for it, thought Darth Vader as he saw it grow in front of him.

Slowly, the shuttle arrived in a huge, nearly empty hangar bay. It was a luxury that only a station this size could indulge, Vader imagined; they certainly didn't have individual bays on Star Destroyers.

A welcoming party of a dozen officers and a squadron of stormtroopers stood there when he walked off the platform, standing at parade rest. In front of the ramp, facing him in the middle of the others, stood Tarkin, perfectly composed as usual.

An unexpected spike of loathing and resentment came through Vader at the memory of the last time he had seen this man, lounging in his seat with a mocking smile as he sentenced Vader's only son to death. The temptation was great to squeeze the Force against his neck, give him the same fate he had wanted to send Luke to, but he held himself back.

The Emperor had sent him here to work on the Death Star. Killing the Grand Moff, whom he knew Palpatine respected and appreciated, would only push Vader further into disgrace.

"Welcome on board, Lord Vader," the man said in his clipped Core accent. Vader hated his confidence, wished to wash it off his face and replace it with fear. "We are grateful to obtain your assistance in protecting the station."

Vader curtly nodded.

"It would be a great shame if anything were to happen to this battle station before it can be completed," he said, grateful for the way his vocoder failed to detect the sarcasm in his voice. "My troopers unit and TIE squadron have been transferred onboard."

Tarkin nodded. "Very well. I hope we won't have to employ their services, but it never hurts to be too careful. After all, if prisoners can even break out from such high security prisons as those on Imperial Centre... To tell the truth, I am still baffled by that boy's escape."

Vader's blood boiled in his veins. How dare he speak so carelessly of it, so lightly, as only a couple of weeks ago he hadn't looked Vader's son in the eye and demeaned him, belittled him, called him names before condemning him...

"It was... unfortunate," he ground through his teeth. Then an idea struck him. Palpatine had forbidden him to look for the boy, not to ask for information. It was a long shot to suppose Tarkin knew anything about the search, but it never cost to try.

"Do you know whether he has been found?"

Tarkin pinched his lips.

"The shuttle he stole was found in the middle of the desert next to a devastated farm on Tatooine, his home planet, which Intelligence thought was the most likely place for him to go back to," he said, and Vader's heart missed a beat. No... he couldn't have been caught so quickly...

"Unfortunately the boy had already left, and we have no certainty he is still on-planet. Our patrols are keeping an eye out for him, but we do not have the manpower available to put the planet on lock-down."

They hadn't found him. He was still free. A powerful wave of relief overwhelmed Vader upon hearing this. Never had he been so grateful for budget limitations.

But it had been close, too close. It was lucky he had arrived before their men did and hadn't been caught. Vader knew Imperial Intelligence were good at what they did, especially when they managed to work with ISB. And the Emperor had all but said he would personally search for him. Vader feared it was but a matter of time before he was captured again...

He had to find a way to protect him. But there was nothing he could do. He couldn't interfere in the search... he would be forced to stand by as they inevitably found and executed him.

Images of Luke's lifeless body on the ground of a remote planet, his eyes unfocused and a blaster bolt in the chest, sprung in his mind. He violently cast them aside.

"I would like to be shown the station before retiring to my quarters," he ordered Tarkin, hoping it would provide for a distraction. He _would_ protect the boy, whatever it took.

Tarkin acquiesced, and Vader fell into step with him.  
 

 

The cantina of Mos Eisley hadn't changed one bit in the seven years since he'd last come inside it, thought Han. Still the same dark and dingy atmosphere, so full of smoke one could barely breathe, the same shady patrons, the same dirty glasses with dubious drinks in them.

As unsavoury as the environment was, however, he was at home with it. It was his element: he knew how to recognise trouble at a glance, who would be a good business partner and who a scam, who he could con and get away with it and who he preferably stayed away from. He'd been at it for so long now, he liked to think he'd developed something of a flair.

Especially now that he had a brand new ship.

Well, brand new perhaps wasn't the right word to describe her, admittedly. But she was a beauty in her own right. You didn't encounter a YT-1300 with a functional class point-five hyperdrive everyday. Had it only been that, Han wouldn't have been half as enamoured; but she was also spacious, with two comfortable cabins and a Dejarik table, two gunning turrets, and an efficient navicomputer. She was the perfect ship; Han hadn't had her for long, but he already knew she was going to be as trustworthy as Chewie, and that was saying something.

He just hoped Lando would get over it soon... He'd won her fair and square, after all. Well, he _may_ have profited of the fact there was no way the other smuggler would ever have bet this baby when he was sober, but the game itself had been completely legit. He'd understand that, someday.

He took a sip of his drink – heady and distinctly Corellian just the way he liked it, although he could have done without the taste of dust – and let his eyes wander around the cantina. It didn't take him long to spot Chewbacca among the crowd, next to the bar, looking for potential clients. Chewie was a gentle and caring soul, but he was two meters tall, and as such deterred most people who were only trying to mess with them in a way Han, despite all his efforts, would never be able to achieve.

A figure approached Chewie, someone Han couldn't see much of because of the wide brown cloak they wore. It wasn't uncommon to cover one's head here; in such a lowlife setting, more than a few people preferred to remain anonymous. Still, he found himself watching them. The person was gesturing with their hands in a way that Han supposed meant they didn't understand Shyriiwook, but the exchange seemed serene, as if they weren't intimidated by Chewbacca at all. Han's interest spiked. That didn't happen often.

Before long, as Han expected, they were coming his way. Chewie sat at his side, and the stranger in front of them. Han could finally see his face, if only a little among the shadows cast by the hood: human, male, and very young, much more than Han had expected him to be.

"Hi," the stranger said. He stayed silent for a fraction of a second then looked away, tilting his head as if he couldn't work out what to say; then he took a breath and looked at Han again. "I need a ship. I'm told you have a good one."

Han's alarm rocketed. "She's not for sale, pal. You came to the wrong place."

He shot an accusing glance at Chewie. They weren't selling the _Falcon_!

The guy looked surprised.

"Oh, I didn't mean... No, I'm not looking to buy. Just for passage off-world."

Han relaxed at that. He slouched in his chair, looked at his drink with a bored air. From under his eyelids, though, he was watching the boy. A kid, really, and a green one at that. Han didn't think he was much of a threat.

"Where?"

The kid shrugged, imitated Han's feigned relaxedness. "Anywhere. I just need off this rock."

Han shot him a quick look. Now, that was interesting... A runaway? Half the kids on this planet dreamt of only one thing, leaving it. The cloak and the careful way it hid him told another story, though.

"Teth?" he asked. The planet was close to Hutt space and occupied by the Empire, both powers competing for dominance. If this kid knew the galaxy a little, his reaction would show Han what he was up to.

Just like he'd expected, the boy grimaced.

"I'd hoped for a place with less Imperial presence."

And there it was. Han would have been surprised if he hadn't been doing something illegal or dealing with the Hutts. There were more reputable places for this kind of request, more likely to attract teens thirsting for adventure. Han wasn't too keen on risking getting too close to the Empire, but if the boy paid well...

"Gonna cost you some," he warned, still keeping up with the bored facade. It helped keeping him in charge, putting his interlocutor on the defensive.

The boy shifted in his seat, but didn't otherwise react much.

"How much?"

"Ten thousand," Han tried. It was a ludicrous price for one passenger, but the kid didn't seem to know his way around things well, and he apparently was in trouble. If he was desperate enough, Han could make a great deal out of it.

The boy's eyes widened for a fraction of a second, then his face became neutral again. He looked down.

"All right."

Han exchanged a surprised glance with Chewie. Not even an attempt at bartering? Either he was richer than he let on, either he had something fishy going on. His body language felt off, clumsy and guarded.

"Paid in advance," Han clarified.

A clenched jaw, a lightning quick flash in his eyes. Han didn't like this.

"Two thousand in advance, the rest upon arrival," the boy countered.

"Ten thousand after boarding but before entering hyperspace," Han replied. "Won't change much for you if you have the credits."

The tiny, nearly undetectable movement of the boy's eyes told Han everything he needed to know.

"Which you don't," he deduced. "So you can go find someone else to try and con."

The boy's composure slipped at once. He took an anxious breath and leant forward on the table, looking pleadingly at Han.

"I'll find them," he hurriedly said. "I have contacts who can help me out..."

In a swift movement, Han drew his blaster and aimed it at him. The boy jerked back, his hands slowly rising to the level of his shoulders.

"On any planet I'd drop you on? Pull the other one, kid," Han said. "I said go bother someone else before I sell you out to the Imps. I'm sure you'd fetch a better price than anything you can give me."

Sheer terror crossed the boy's eyes, and Han nearly felt pity. How old was he, seventeen, eighteen? He looked earnest enough, not suited at all to a life of crime. Han would probably feel worse for him if he hadn't just tried to scam him, though.

"Please don't," the kid stammered. He threw a glance at Chewie as if asking him for help, but his first mate didn't say anything. "I – I'll leave you alone, I didn't mean any harm, I just need to leave the planet as soon as I can..."

"Get money and then we'll talk," said Han, putting his blaster back in his holster. They weren't a charity. They couldn't afford to take shady strangers onboard out of the goodness of their hearts, especially if they had the Empire on their tail. Han had to wonder what this kid had done to find himself in this kind of trouble, though. He looked more like a kicked puppy than a dangerous criminal.

He shook the thought. Wasn't his problem.

The kid nodded, resigned.

"Okay," he said. "Thanks anyway."

He shot Han a half-hearted smile, nodded at Chewie, then stood up. Han's gaze, however, was drawn further behind him. He briskly pulled on the kid's wrist, forcing him to sit back down.

"What –" the boy exclaimed, wrenching his arm out of Han's grasp.

"Not so loud," Han said. "You're gonna draw attention to us."

Discreetly, the boy turned around. His shoulders stiffened as he spotted the stormtroopers talking with the barman. He turned back towards Han and Chewie and pulled his hood further down on his face, a hand going to his hip.

"They've blocked all exits," he said in a strained voice.

Han looked around. As far as he could see from his booth, the kid was right. The troopers were making their way in the cantina... checking papers?

"Kreth," he said. He and Chewie hadn't had a valid ID in years. "I wouldn't mind leaving right now."

"Let's do it then," the kid answered. There was a hard glint in his eyes, reckless, and his hand was still under the table, probably clutching a weapon Han couldn't see. "We get out now."

"Hey, hey, kid, wait a second," Han hurried to say. "You're just going to get yourself killed like that. We stay low, wait it out and leave after they do."

"No," the boy snapped, with a harshness that surprised Han. "They're going to come here, control us and we'll be trapped. We need to move now."

"And what do you expect to achieve like that, except making them notice you quicker?"

The boy's face closed off.

"You'll see. I'm getting out of here whether you come with me or not, so what are you doing?"

Han exchanged a glance with Chewie, who shrugged and roared a soft "your call" at him. And Han really didn't want to spend the night in a dry cell of Tatooine's Imperial outpost.

"Bring it on," he mumbled.

The kid nodded. He threw a look around then swiftly slid out of the booth, his head still deep in the hood, inconspicuous in the darkness of the room. Han and Chewie followed him closely, trying to look like some people just going to the bar.

They reached the back entrance without any incident, heading normally towards the exit. Han tensed when the trooper guarding it shifted his grip on his blaster. The boy was too close, he was going to get shot –

Then something odd happened. There was a flash of blue light, a buzz and a hiss, and the trooper fell down on the floor.

"Hey, you!" shouted his companion, but the boy had already left. Han hurried to shoot him then ran out after the kid, Chewie on his heels, without looking back to see the troopers following them. The boy was swift and nimble despite his big cloak, and didn't stop until they'd reached a dark, narrow alleyway.

"Where's your ship?" he asked Han and Chewie.

"Docking bay 94," Han replied.

The boy nodded, looking serious. Running had brought his hood down and his cloak open, letting Han see his military cut and a black shirt looking a lot like a Navy uniform, although he didn't wear any rank insigna. His posture, too, seemed a little military, ramrod straight and stiff.

"You a soldier?" Han asked.

The boy looked at him, winced.

"TIE pilot," he said, and even in the short, curt answer Han could hear some pride in his voice. "Well, I was."

Han nodded. He knew the feeling.

"Did they sack you or did you leave?"

The boy huffed with a sad, bitter smile, but didn't answer.

"This way," he changed the subject, pointing in a direction. "I think it's the shortest to the docks."

He brought back his hood on his head, then, clasping a cylindrical, metallic object Han supposed was a weapon, he left the street. Han followed suit.

They hadn't made ten steps when a voice made his blood freeze.

"That's them!"

He looked back and saw white-armoured troopers come from an adjacent street, in the direction of the cantina they'd just left. He drew his blaster and shot at them. Next to him, Chewie was doing the same; but the soldiers were too many, the road was too narrow for them to move well. He guessed the kid had been luckier and was ahead of them. A quick glance behind told Han there was a corner just a few feet further...

Then the boy was at their side again, in front of them, waving what looked like a blade made of blue light in front of him like a pike and preventing the troopers from getting any closer.

"Go ahead," he told them.

Han intended to do just that as the kid kept waving his weapon in front of him in dissuasion; then there was a blaster shot and the blue light vanished.

He should have run. He should have fled the scene and gone back to the _Falcon_ before taking off; they still had some supplies, and there would still be work another day. But the terrified cry the boy let out as the trooper seized his arm chilled him to the core. Before he knew it, he shot the soldier in the head to free him.

"Come," he hurried to say.

The boy picked up the sword then followed him as they ran. They took several turns in the town, crossed a two-way shop to find themselves in a backyard before finally losing their pursuers and arriving at the docking bay without any troopers on their tail.

"Well, that was close," said Han. "Thanks for the help, kid."

The boy waved and shook his head with a tiny smile.

"Least I could do for trying to con you and pulling you in this mess," he said. "Have a good flight, I guess... I imagine you're not gonna stay long with the Empire here."

"Sure not," Han replied. He hesitated, looked him over. "What are you going to do?"

The boy tried to smile, but it came out as strained, little more than a grimace.

"Lay low for a while, then try to find transport again," he said, too casually. "If I'm lucky, maybe I'll find a decent enough sum of money to leave before they find me."

_Before they find me_. Once again, Han wondered what his story was, what he'd done, or not done, to get in trouble with the Empire. Was he a Jedi? Han had heard stories about them having the same kind of weapon he had... If that was the case, it didn't spell out anything good for him. The boy was being casual about it, but Han heard, through his silence, how aware he was of what was most likely to happen to him.

Well. Tough. The Empire ruined the lives of a lot of people, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

"Good luck," he told him sincerely. "Got a feeling you'll need it."

"Thanks," the boy nodded, quickly averting his eyes, not even managing the smile this time.

He shot a wistful look at the _Falcon_ , then turned around and started walking away.

Han watched him absently, a tinge of guilt in his chest, then shrugged. Chewie didn't help, though, growling at him in Shyriiwook.

"There's another bunk in the crew cabin and we've got two cannon turrets," he said. "We could use another crew member."

Han looked at him incredulously.

"Don't tell me you want to... take him with us?"

"He's not bad in a fight," Chewie replied. "You've seen it like me."

"He's trouble," Han said. "I can smell it two parsecs away."

Chewie uttered a barking laugh.

"Only the tallest ash tree mocks the twig for being wooden," he said, shoving Han in the shoulder.

Han rolled his eyes. "Oh, laugh it up," he said, pointing a finger in his copilot's face. "You've got nothing on me, you were the entire reason I got kicked out of the Navy."

"And you're not curious how that happened to him?"

He was right, Han realised. The kid did say he used to be a pilot. And now he was fleeing from the Empire... Han's guilt increased, remembering the look in his eyes just now, how resigned he'd seemed to his fate. How long had he been lurking around this town, trying to get away? How long until they finally caught him?

Besides, the _Falcon_ was bigger than their previous ship. Maybe they needed another crew member after all.

"I don't like this," he said anyway, on principle. "It's a terrible idea, and it's entirely yours."

Chewie laughed, but Han didn't wait for his comeback before running in the direction the boy had taken. Thankfully he hadn't gotten very far, and he jumped in surprise when Han called after him, catching up with him.

"Hey, kid," he said, feeling the slightest bit awkward. "Me and Chewie, we've got a deal for you, if you want."

The boy frowned, on the defensive.

"Like what?"

Han hesitated.

"Well, we've agreed to take you off-planet, if you accept to do some smuggling work for us in exchange."

The kid's face was still as guarded. "What kind of work?"

"Nothing too bad," Han waved. "Helping us with the cargo, manning the _Falcon_ , there's always something to do on a ship. You call it quits whenever you want if it doesn't suit you and we'll drop you at the nearest port. No strings attached."

At last, to Han's relief, understanding seemed to dawn on the boy's face. His eyes widened, hope lighting in them, and he gaped.

"You mean... you're offering me to work on your ship? With you?"

"Don't take it as a favour, kid," Han answered, defensive once again. It was a bad idea; if something turned sour, it would be Chewie's fault. "It's just another way for you to pay for your trip."

"Sure," the boy said. A wide grin appeared on his face, making his eyes look livelier than anything Han had seen from him, making him look much younger. He seized Han's hand and shook it. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

"Don't mention it," Han waved, a little too brusquely maybe. "Come. Chewie's waiting for take-off."

He turned around and went back towards the ship, the kid on his heels.


	4. Anxieties

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helloooooo, I'm not dead, this story is not abandoned, hurray :D I don't even know if I should apologise at this point. I hit a bit of a dry spell, and then it was the finals, and then I fell headfirst into another fandom - as one does. I can't promise it won't happen again, but I can and will promise that it will not prevent me from continuing this until it's complete. We're still at the very beginning of it, and despite the rough start I hope to eventually find a cruising speed again.
> 
> Thank you so, so much for all the support, all the kind messages and comments, and for everyone sticking with this story despite the chaotic update rhythm. You are all blessings and I appreciate all of you who reach out, even though I have been very bad at replying recently.

Luke casually leant against the wall of the small and dark alley, a foot up against the brick, a hand on the blaster in his holster, keeping an eye on the corner while paying close attention to the transaction at hand. On the other side of Han and the dealer, Chewie was doing the same, his bow-caster held tightly in his hairy hand.

"Listen, I don't care what sort of deal you and Jabba struck, or if he's fooled you. You can take that to him, all I'm here for is getting that glitterstim."

"No. I haven't gotten my money, you don't get the spice."

Luke threw them a glance, fingers drumming on the barrel of his weapon. The Duros dealer kept his arms crossed on his chest, defensive as Han invaded his personal space, blaster drawn.

"You've already gotten it, and if you don't, it's not my problem – Jabba sure won't be happy if his spice doesn't arrive in time. Just sayin'."

The dealer looked away, visibly intimidated but too stubborn to admit it. Luke pinched his lips but didn't say anything. He didn't like working for Jabba; like every Tatooine resident, Luke had suffered from the Hutt crime lord's actions when he lived there. Bringing that trouble to others, carrying out the bullying he'd once been a victim of, was deeply distasteful to him. He felt vaguely sympathetic to the dealer, despite the likelihood he had actually received his due and was trying to get twice the money.

But it paid, and Luke was on the run.

"He – he said you'd pay me – there was nothing about advance p –"

"Shut up," Han retorted. "You know as well as I do that's not true."

Luke's jaw tightened. They'd been at it for at least ten minutes now. Staying in one place like this, arguing, was dangerous. This was supposed to be an easy job, in and out, not this battle of wits and pride. At this rate they'd all end up caught before long... Luke itched to run away and back to the _Falcon_ , cargo or not.

"I don't care what you say, no money, no spice."

Footsteps resounded from outside the alley. Luke jumped and drew his blaster, immediately on high alert.

"Han..."

The footsteps came closer. Luke strained to hear them, tense and ready to bolt at any moment.

"What?" Han snapped.

Luke tightened his grasp on his blaster, staring at the entrance of the alley. His hands were growing clammy, his breathing accelerating. The footsteps were still coming closer.

"I think we're gonna have company," he whispered, his throat closed.

At this Han tensed too. He straightened and faced the entrance of the alley, blaster still firmly in hand. So did Chewie and the dealer, and they all stood in expectation, listening intently. The steps grew louder, a shadow appeared on the ground.

Then the passerby, a woman in a cloak, walked past the alley without even looking at them.

All of them relaxed.

"This has gone on long enough," Han turned back to the dealer. "Now you give us what we need or we'll take it from you. Your choice."

Luke barely heard them. His breath was too loud, his fingers numb. This really wasn't a good time for it to be happening, he berated himself with dismay, trying to fight it.

He forced himself to take deep breaths, to reassure his derailing mind and focus on the conversation behind him. They were fine, there was no danger. Nobody would show up and arrest them out of the blue. It was just him being stupid.

Luke started when Chewie put a hand on his shoulder.

"We're done here," Han said. He handed Luke a few pockets of spice that he hid in his jacket. "Let's move."

They traced their steps back in direction of the Falcon. Luke stayed on Han and Chewie's heels, constantly checking his surroundings. He knew he was being illogical, but there was no ignoring the tremendous but vague peril screaming at him.

For once, that overwhelming sense of doom must have been right, for he was the first to see the two other Duros opening fire on them.

"Watch out!"

He pushed Han and Chewie out of the way, just in time for them to avoid the blaster bolts coming. In the same movement, he drew and fired at their opponents, soon joined by his co-smugglers.

"What the hell...?" Han said.

"Friends of our dealer, probably," Chewie speculated.

The firing stopped for a short moment, which they used by running in a perpendicular street – only to find themselves faced with a dead end. Han cursed.

"We need a diversion." Luke unclipped a smoke detonator from his belt. Han looked at it and nodded.

They came closer to the wall, enough to be near the entrance of the street but not to be seen from their pursuers. The two Duros turned the corner of the alley just afterwards. Luke threw his bomb, which exploded and blinded their opponents, allowing the three of them to run away, ducking to avoid badly aimed fire.

They must have been out of sight when the Duros left the street, because nobody followed them on the road to rejoin the _Falcon_. Still, they watched their backs as they ran towards their ship, and did the preflight checks as quickly as they could before taking off.

Sitting in the back seat while Han and Chewie manoeuvred out of atmosphere, Luke counted his breaths in silence, his heart painfully thumping against his ribs. There would be no bounty hunters, the engines weren't going to fail, they were fine.

It was a good thing his companions were focused on what they were doing. He hoped his face betrayed none of the fear making him dizzy. They couldn't see him like this, could never know there was something wrong with him. Everything was _fine_.

Fortunately, Luke managed to avert the crisis this time, and by the time they entered hyperspace, the pressure had released his mind. No more impending freak-out, just a bone-deep tiredness. He let the steady thrum of the engine soothe him and closed his eyes with a sigh, rubbing his temples.

"Phew," Han let out, letting himself fall down on the couch of the passenger hold, where Luke and Chewie were already sitting. "That was something. Thanks for that, kid."

"That was way too close," Luke breathed with a shaky laugh. "Why is it that wherever we go, there's always someone after us?"

Han shrugged. "Perks of this line of work, I guess."

Luke nodded. Thanks the Force that in the agitation Han hadn't noticed what was happening to him. Both he and Chewie were friendly enough, much more than anyone he'd met these two weeks near the Mos Eisley cantinas. Luke knew he'd been lucky to be offered a place on their ship. He really didn't want to discover how they would react if they were to discover he sometimes panicked for the dumbest things. At first he'd thought these flashes of fear were warnings of the Force, but they had proved far too unreliable for that.

Besides, the Force no longer even answered to Luke. It would have made their escape so much easier, this time and numerous others. The few times he had tried to access it since his imprisonment, he'd barely been able to concentrate long enough to reach it; and when he finally had, amidst all his frustration, it had felt murky and clouded, uninviting. He felt crippled, diminished, as if he had lost a limb or gone blind, and in his frustration he had stopped reaching out.

But it would be fine. Not so long ago, he hadn't even known what the Force was. Most people fared perfectly without it; surely he could, too. It wasn't such a big deal.

"You know what, I still have a bottle of Corellian brandy in here somewhere. That guy tired me out and I'm in the mood for a drink, what do you say?"

He looked at Chewie, who agreed, then at Luke.

"Sure," Luke said, curious. Han kept bragging about Corellian liquor, but in the two months he'd flown with them, Luke had never tasted it. It was as good a time as any, plus he really could do with a drink.

Han opened the chest under his seat and didn't have to look for a long time before finding the brandy. He took it out, grabbed three glasses from the shelf, and poured a generous quantity of alcohol in them and handed them to Luke and Chewie before cheering.

The liquor was strong and burned through Luke's mouth, nose and throat, but soon only left a pleasant warmth in its wake. Luke immediately took another sip, savouring it. The taste was rough, but not coarse. His muscles relaxed, and he let out a yawn.

"This is good," Chewie said in the typical growl of Shyriiwook. Luke still didn't understand everything he said, but most things, and he was glad with the progress he'd made. Chewie had complimented him on it, too. "You should have shared before."

"It's way better after a few years," Han replied, twirling his glass in his hand in appreciation. "This one aged well, I'm glad I kept it this long. What do you think, kid?"

"I like it," Luke answered. "Way better than the ale we got on Tatooine."

It was what they drank most after bantha milk: water was expensive and difficult to purify. It was more refreshing than milk, but didn't taste great, and Luke didn't miss it.

Han snorted.

"Yeah, Tatooine's not gonna be renowned for its drinks any time soon."

Luke rolled his eyes. "Yeah, you just laugh. I'm sure your obsession with Corellian drinks and ships has everything to do with their quality and nothing at all with you coming from there."

Han flashed him a grin. "Can't help it, kid, the best things come from Corellia."

Luke shook his head while Chewie let out a rumbling laugh.

"I am glad I am no longer the only one having to suffer his bragging," he said to Luke. "He's always like this. Insufferable."

Luke sighed. "You know, you're the third Corellian I've met with that kind of ego. I've got to wonder if being conceited jerks is in your genes or something."

"Nah, it's just that we're the best at everything that matters," Han lounged in his seat, deliberately rolling his glass in his hand. "It's not our fault, anything the galaxy does, we can do it – hey!"

He let out a high-pitched squeal as Chewie shove him in the shoulder. Luke started laughing.

"That's not fun, Chewie! You spilled all my booze!"

They were interrupted by the hyperspace alarm, indicating they were reverting to realspace for a jump. Han and Chewie rose to operate it while Luke followed, sitting in the chair behind them.

They pulled out of hyperspace, but the comms beeped before they could jump on their second lane.

"Huh? Odd," Han said, frowning. "Imps hailing us."

Luke's heart missed a horrible beat.

"Oh, kriff," he whispered, paling. " _Kriff,_ I forgot to update the ship codes, maybe they tracked us, maybe they followed us –"

"No, I don't think so," Chewie said. "One slip-up isn't a problem, it's on the long run that it's important to change them regularly."

Luke bit his lip without answering. What Chewie said made sense, but he couldn't help imagining the worst. What if they were unlucky, and just this time they had been tracked?

"Relax, kid," Han said. "I need to answer this, we're not ready for the jump yet."

They both nodded, tense. Han opened the channel.

"Unidentified freighter, please stand ready for control by the customs unit."

Luke's stomach dropped, and what little blood remained in his face drained away from it in an instant. They wanted to board them.

"Nothing to declare, sir," Han said in the most boring voice he had. "We're just trying to get back home."

"Nevertheless, sir, please stand by for boarding. A simple formality, then you will be on your way."

Han grimaced and exchanged a look with them, but the message was clear. There was no getting out of this.

"All right."

He cut the transmission and let out a curse.

"See, nothing to do with the codes," he joked, but his smile was strained. "Just bad luck."

"You can't let them on board." Luke was pretty proud that his voice was as steady and hard as it was, considering how terrified he felt.

Han sent him an apologising look.

"I don't have a choice," he said. "It happens sometimes, but they're usually bored and don't want to be here more than we want them to. If they don't find anything, we'll be fine."

"You don't understand. You can't let them come here, you _can't_!"

Luke couldn't breathe, grey walls closing in on him. This was a nightmare... this was not happening, he was going to wake up. He was still looking at Han pleadingly, hoping he would change his mind, because if Imperial soldiers got onboard Luke was lost.

Chewie took Luke's shoulder. Luke tried to calm his racing heart, resisted the will to brush him off. Not again. _Not again_.

"They won't be looking to arrest us. Everything will be all right."

Luke blinked, fought against the way his vision was swimming, dark spots filling his eyes. He rubbed them reflexively. The sounds were distorted, blurry.

"... drop the spice... Jabba's gonna kill us..."

Luke frowned, desperately tried to hang on to this piece of reality. Right. Spice. _Falcon_. Safe.

"Smuggling compartments," he mumbled. Breathe. Breathe. He looked at Han, focused on his eyes, his hair, his nose. The hum of the ship. Chewie's hand on his shoulder.

"Yeah, good thinking," Han nodded.

He grabbed their cargo, which wasn't very sizeable despite its value, and went in the corridor to hide it. Luke watched him go, made a move to follow him, then decided to rather sit on the couch of the passenger hold. He dropped on it like a sack of flour, his heart still painfully racing. He looked at his hands, watched his nails, the lines on his skin.

It was going to be all right. Nothing would happen. He felt like a frayed thread, bare and fragile.

Luke's hand went on the blaster at his hip, then the rectangular compartment on his belt where he kept his lightsabre, safely out of sight yet close to reach. It was burning against his waist, a ticking bomb waiting to be discovered. And still he couldn't bring himself to get rid of it.

He didn't go to the cockpit as Han and Chewie manoeuvred them on the bigger Imperial ship, staying on the couch instead, his head bent. He heard the ramp come down, the heavy footsteps trampling it sending shivers down his spine. A hand settled on his shoulder, and he rose next to Han as they moved to see the soldiers in. Luke stared straight ahead, grateful as Han discreetly pushed his forearm to make his hand fall from his blaster.

"Who is the shipmaster?" one of the troopers asked, and Han took a step forward to introduce himself.

Luke stood next to Chewie, strangely detached as they opened cupboards and chests. He repressed his flinches as they brushed past him, stiffening as their leader barked orders. There was a burning taste in the back of his mouth. There was cold around his wrists. He shook them discreetly to remind himself they were free, but couldn't get rid of the sensation. He didn't feel free. He couldn't move.

The Force was swirling around him, dark and thick, preying, as if it had never left him. He tried to push it away, but it wouldn't leave. It pressed against his head, demanding entrance, a fierce and destroying bid for answers ravaging everything in his path...

"Thank you, sir. Everything is in order, we will leave you now."

The words didn't register; only the filtered, unnatural sound of their voice through the helmet. Luke's heart was drumming in his chest, in his neck, in his head.

An explosion rocked the floor, nearly sending the troopers down, and Luke knew without knowing how that he'd been the one who caused it. The Force was still rolling around him, dark and heavy and inescapable no matter how hard he tried.

"What was that?" the leader of the unit asked Han as his troopers got back on their feet with a groan.

"Ah, don't pay attention to it, she's just a bit temperamental," Han waved with a charming smile. Luke admired his composure when he probably had no idea what had just happened. Luke had no idea about that himself, except that it was his fault.

His hands were trembling; he clasped them behind his back, willing them to still, trying to calm down.

For a maddening couple of seconds, the trooper didn't react, looking around himself and looking uncertain.

"Sir, that doesn't sound very in keeping with safety regulations, I might have to –"

A second explosion sent them all to the floor. Smoke made them cough, but it wasn't what made Luke freeze. The sight of the smuggling compartments blown open was, the packets of spice visible in the bottom of them.

Kriff. _Kriff_. What the –

Three blaster shots rang. Han stood with his blaster drawn, the troopers' bodies fallen into the destroyed compartments while Chewie was pushing himself on his feet.

Relief overcame Luke at the sight of the corpses.

"Chewie, power the deflectors shields to the maximum and launch the hyperspace sequence, Luke and I are taking the guns. Let's just hope she doesn't do this again," Han said, slamming the ramp shut and heading for the cannon turrets.

Luke mindlessly followed him, then sank in his seat. Breathe. The ladder. His blaster at his side. He put the headpiece on his ears and took the commands in his hands.

Their departure took the Imperials by surprise and they managed to leave the hangar without difficulty, but a squadron of TIEs soon tailed them. Chewie's evasive manoeuvres twisted and rocked the ship; it was disconcerting not to have any control on her movements.

He swallowed drily, his hands clasped on the controls of the laser guns as he tried to fire on the tiny ships. He still remembered flying one of these himself; remembered their speed and their ease of control, the reckless glee as he escaped Rebel fire with his squadron.

No. They weren't his squadron any more, not since he – since he –

"Everything all right, Luke? Feeling a bit alone right now," Han said.

A blast of green light grazed the ship. Luke jumped and fired at the TIE in front of him, missing it by a hair but deviating it from its course.

"Sorry," he said.

The fight went on for another few tense minutes. Luke fought himself as much as the Imperials. It was defence, it was survival, kill or be killed was a lesson Luke had learnt the had way. Still he couldn't bring himself to fire at these people with fatal intent, his hands shaking so much his blasts always brushed them with nearly no damage. He gritted his teeth in frustration.

Hadn't hesitation been drilled out of him already? He thought of Carosi, of Praadost, of the reluctance that had put his squadmates in danger. He owed it to Han and Chewie to fight!

Yet only one thought rang on and on in his head, overwhelming all else.

_I am no enemy. I didn't betray._

At long last, the stars stretched out in the lines of hyperspace, and Luke sagged in relief.

"Whooo!" he heard Han shout in the comms. "We've made it!"

Luke stared ahead of him, eyes drawn by the mesmerising threads of light. It was over. They were free, they were alive.

 _No thanks to me._ Shame and guilt roiled in his stomach. There wouldn't have been a fight hadn't he lost control of the Force like that. And then, in the fight itself, he'd been spectacularly useless.

Useless. Damaged. He supposed that was a good way to describe him. Unable to shoot at people who he knew were enemies; unable to reach to the Force until it lashed out on its own at the worst possible moment. He was a walking bomb, a danger on his feet. How hadn't Han and Chewie not left him behind on a spaceport yet? He would doubtlessly end up getting them killed.

Like Chaser, like Owen and Beru.

He all but tore the headphones from his head and covered his eyes with his hands.  
 

 

Darth Vader didn't wait for the officers meeting to be called off before he strode out of the room, his patience spent. These things were tedious and useless, and irritated him to the highest degree. He wouldn't even have attended, was it not for the Emperor's complaints: his master feared he didn't take the Death Star's security seriously enough, and said its commanders requested his presence more often. Never mind that he had access to all the information discussed there in advance and that he addressed weekly reports of his actions to the board. No, he needed to be _seen_ , a pathetic display of his presence that did nothing but waste time.

Perhaps, however, was wasting his time the very goal of the manoeuvre.

"Lord Vader!"

Vader clenched his fists upon hearing the hated voice of Grand Moff Tarkin, making the greatest effort to resist strangling him where he stood.

"You could have waited just a couple of minutes more for us to finish," he said as he came at Vader's side. "You storming out as you tend to do gives our men the wrong impression."

"I could not care less for the impression I give, Grand Moff," Vader retorted, turning towards him. "I have better things to do than listen to the inane chatter of self-important bureaucrats."

Tarkin pinched his lips, and Vader turned his back on him again before walking away with vindictive pleasure.

"I reckon you intend on departing at once for Raltiir, then?"

Vader stopped. "As soon as I see fit."

"And what else do you still need to busy yourself with? This is a matter of great urgency, Vader."

Vader made an annoyed gesture of the hand, whirling around to face him. "So you keep saying. I fail to see how they are such a threat to us, however. I was tasked with defending the Death Star, not squashing every rebellion you find yourself inconvenienced with."

"It is possible they hold information regarding the stolen plans," Tarkin went on. "You know that. We cannot afford to show weakness after the fiasco of Operation Strike Fear. We must retaliate, swift and strong."

"I fully trust Captain Piett to handle that. As I recall, you were quick to praise his successes in the campaign."

Vader had been the one to promote him to Captain and to put him in charge of the operation, and the man had done nothing but rise to his expectations.

"That was before we lost _Invincible_ ," Tarkin said. "We need to regain our footing more than ever, at least until this station is operational."

"You put too much faith in this technological terror."

"Then prove me wrong and subjugate the Rebels yourself," the Moff retorted. "I fail to see what would be holding you back."

And there it was. The question, thinly disguised as usual.

Vader knew Tarkin had been tasked by the Emperor to watch him, just as he knew the mind-numbing meetings and numerous appointments he was made to attend were designed not only to humiliate him as a punishment for his transgressions, but also to keep him busy and prevent him from seeking his son. In the two months since his escape, Vader had barely had the time to look for him, and he hadn't learnt anything. Their bond in the Force was still closed, and the careful searches he had performed in the databases of the Empire without being caught had been entirely fruitless. For all he knew, Luke had disappeared from the galaxy.

The only reassurance he had that his son wasn't dead yet was that he was certain Palpatine would gloat to him about it.

"It is none of your business," he coldly answered, making sure Tarkin understood his place. "I will inform you when I am about to leave."

He turned around and walked away, far from that infuriating man and who he represented. He hated having to answer to him, hated the way he restricted his movements and ordered him around, hated the power Palpatine had granted him. He longed to seize his skinny neck and snap it in half, to extinguish that self-satisfied light in his eyes.

But no amount of murderous daydream would allow him to pursue his son's protection.

He wandered aimlessly in the corridors for a while before realising he truly didn't have anything left to do here. Remote as it was, the station barely received major news of the Empire's campaigns, and most of his information came from Tarkin anyway. His flagship, _Devastator_ , had been assigned a mission in the Elbaran Sector, although Black Squadron and the 501st had been allowed to remain on the Death Star next to him. The Emperor had made sure he didn't have the independence to move on his own, nor to find Luke.

As much as he hated to admit it, he had no choice but to leave for Raltiir now. Maybe that would turn out for the best: perhaps the Rebels knew more about his son's whereabouts than whatever reached the Death Star... He doubted it, but it was worth pursuing.

Whatever happened, whatever limitations Palpatine imposed on him, Vader refused to give up. He hadn't saved Luke only for him to be shot on sight by Imperial troopers. Vader would find him and protect him. He refused to accept any alternative.

It was with that purpose in mind that he headed towards his shuttle, ignoring all the soldiers he strode past save one ensign he tasked with telling Tarkin he was leaving. He boarded the shuttle, performed the pre-flight procedures, and was about to check in with control when a soft beeping drew his attention.

He turned around and saw a small black-domed astromech droid rolling towards him with inquisitive trills. It was a standard W4 model, derived from the wider C2 category, with nothing distinctive about him; but Vader had seen him with Luke too often not to recognise him.

"Hello, little one," he said, surprised by the flow of emotion that the mere sight of the droid had awakened in him. "What are you doing here?"

From the binary flutter that followed, Vader thought he understood that the droid was doing maintenance on his shuttle. The electronic language used by droids evolved quickly, and he hadn't talked to an astromech for a while; furthermore, it seemed this particular droid's processing speed was at least twice what he was used to, so it wasn't easy to follow it. But the basis of it remained similar to what he'd once used to communicate with Artoo-Detoo, so he caught the gist of it.

Then the droid inquired about Luke, sending a pang through Vader's heart.

He stilled, remembering the numerous times he had seen the droid rolling and twittering around his son, the smile on his son's face, his hand on the black dome. These had been simpler times, when he had taken Luke's presence for granted, too obsessed with the mystery around him to stop and appreciate what he had. He hadn't paid much attention to Luke's everyday life, had never realised how deep the bond he had formed with this small droid ran, if this was the extent of his loyalty.

"He is... not onboard this station at the moment," he said, fiercely determined he would never find himself on the Death Star, surprised by the unexpected emotions these thoughts were causing him. He didn't want to explain what happened at length.

An idea formed in his mind when he heard the disappointed twitter of the droid. The astromech obviously cared about Luke enough to approach him for news; even droids usually knew to stay away from the fearful Darth Vader. In a land of spies and enemies, this small and unassuming machine could very well be a precious ally in his quest.

"In fact," he rumbled, "I do not know where he is, except that he is in grave danger."

The worried exclamation told him all he needed to. Yes, the astromech would do anything he could to help; the greatest risk would be that he was caught, but even in that case, he couldn't be linked to Vader. He was certainly spirited enough that it would be believable for him to act on his own.

"If you want to help, I need you to investigate his whereabouts and report to me. Monitor all the communications you can, connect with central databases wherever you go and find him, all of that without leaving a trace. There are hostile agents after him, mandated by the highest authority in the Empire; it is of the greatest importance that we locate him before they do, and in secret."

The droid twittered an agreement. Vader knelt down in front of him.

"I will equip you with clearance codes and access protocols, anti-tracking algorithms, as well as a way to contact me," he said before opening the droid's panel. The astromech didn't protest and docilely let him work. Vader took care to include resetting protocols to erase his additions in case the droid was caught, and used the opportunity to check his identification number. _W4-L3_ , he committed to his memory.

When he finished, he stood again and set a hand on the droid's dome.

"May the Force be with you, Weefour," he said.

The droid turned around and exited the shuttle. Vader let him go then engaged the take-off procedures, his heart somewhat lighter.

He would ensure Luke's safety if it was the last thing he did.


End file.
